


Conquers All Even the Unconquerable

by Army C (arh581958)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: APPRECIATE MICKEY MILKOVICH IN A DRESS THAT HE PROMISED NEVER TO WEAR, Anal Sex, Ass-eating, Canon-Compliant, Emotional Sex, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Have you seen his LEGS in THOSE HEELS!?, Homecoming, I DON'T CARE BECAUSE THE SHOW JUST ENDED WITH THIS STORY, M/M, Mickey comes back, Mickey in a dress, Mickey looks hot as fuck in a dress, NO TAKE BACKS, Post-Episode 11, Reunions, STOCKINGS!, this is the story they deserve, with lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8827873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Ian watched the only man he ever loved drive off to cross the Mexican border. But it's not the end of their story. Everyone knows that Mickey will always come back. Nothing can stop their love--no wall, no border--because Gallavich cannot be broken. (Or: the one where Mickey comes back in the middle of the night)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the writers of this show. I do not know _where_ to begin my lamentations. First, you bait us for a whole season about a Gallavich reunion. Only for that said reunion to be a mini 2-episode story arch wherein you paint Mickey as a bad guy like Jimmy/Steve. He isn't Jimmy Steve. He never forced Ian into anything. He's a goddamn flawed character who just wants to experience a happily-ever-after that the whole world is conspiring against. Second, WTF, he's gone again? Is Noel never coming back? What's with these cheap-ass producers killing a show with so much potential by refusing to _regularize_ one of their best developed characters?! 
> 
>  
> 
> **So, yes, Shameless ended with last night's episode. You cannot convince me otherwise. This is the unpublished Director's Cut Coda.**

His bed doesn’t smell right.

Ian tosses and turns to no avail. It’s been exactly two days, thirteen hours, and seven minutes since he saw Mickey crossing safely over the Mexican border. He knows it was the right choice. Living a life on the run isn’t him anymore. That doesn’t make anything easier. He misses Mickey so much that it hurts—like a phantom hand holding his heart hostage.

 _CLATTER_.

“What the fu—?”

The words die on his throat. Alarm bells start ringing in his head. All his EMT training are telling him to get up and _run_ as fast as he can—but he can’t. He’s frozen. A blur moves into the bedroom then a heavy weight lands on his chest.

“You fucker.” It’s whispered into the night before lips crash against his.

Ian moans. His hands come to grip the only man he’s ever truly loved. His mind is reeling. He opens his eyes and sees _Mickey_ with his blotched-up make-up, hair sticking up in every direction, and the five o’clock stubble—his first and only love.

Mickey is _here_.

With him.

In Chicago.

Mickey brings the scent of cigarettes, beer, and two-day old man sweat. Ian cannot stop his heart from beating faster and faster—almost like the wildest combination of drugs back in the day.

Mickey is strong and solid above him.

Mickey is alive.

Mickey is _back_.

Ian takes it all in—breathes in the scent, relishes the warmth of body heat, and the taste of Mickey’s mouth. How was he able to let this man go to Mexico without him?

“Fuck,” he breathes, breaking the kiss. His arms automatically wind around Mickey’s waist as if afraid that the oasis would disappear. “Fuck, Mickey. I thought I fucking lost you.”

Mickey laughs, and it’s vibrant and beautiful. “Takes more than a goodbye to get rid of me, asshole.” He hits Ian square on the chest, making the redhead fall back on the bed. He closes the gap between their bodies again—lining up every curve and cranny—before Ian gets a chance to protest.

“Couldn’t do it,” he confesses, “Couldn’t leave you again.”

Ian clings to Mickey’s slender shape. The flimsy black material of Mickey’s dress feels smooth under his palms. “Does that mean you’re going to stay…?”

“Dunno, man.” Mickey crawls to his elbows, leaning over Ian. “You gotta place I can crash? Cheap-ass rent?” His hands caress their way down Ian’s sides to cup behind the ginger’s boxer. “Ya know, lots of free ass too? Hot dude that makes me pancakes in the morning?”

“You can stay here.”

It’s not much of an offer but it’s all that he has. This is the Southside. There’s hundreds of cops patrolling every day looking for Mickey. He knows it’s not ideal—but at least they’re together for the first time in years. It’s a selfish thought but right now he wants nothing more than to wake up every morning spooned behind Mickey.

Mickey bites his lip. Ian knows that nervous tick.

“Hey,” he says, thumbing at the swollen flesh. “We’ll make it work.”

“Nothing goods gonna come outta this.”

“But you’re here.”

“I know.”

Ian slides his hands down the curve of Mickey’s back, then skillfully flips them over—trapping the handsome dark-haired man underneath him. God, Mickey is _gorgeous_ in the moonlight with his pale skin and black dress spread out over Ian’s bed.

“Stay,” he urges, kissing the column of Mickey’s throat. Strong legs wrap around his hips in response. He cannot help but smirk against the stubbly jaw. “Can’t believe you’re wearing a fucking dress, Mick.” He licks along the frilly neckline. “You know, I remember—“ Kiss “—this could be our wedding night. Just me and you in a dress.”

Mickey moans, arching up to Ian’s lips. “What? Not even a fake ceremony?”

“No _pe_.” Ian pops his lips before sucking on Mickey’s adam’s apple. “Straight to the honeymoon. Watcha say, Mickey?”

“Fuck yeah.” Mickey opens his legs and tugging on Ian’s sleep shirt. “Yeah, yeah. Fucking get on me, Ian. Want you so much.”

Ian never thought he’d ever have this. It’s amazing—overwhelming enough to bring tears to his eyes even if he finds it so hard to cry.

Mickey’s fingers are run gently over his cheeks, cooing to him gruffly. “Hey, hey, I know. You don’t gotta hold it in, Firecrotch. I’m here, ayt? I ain’t leavin’.”

Ian nods, pressing their foreheads together. He doesn’t speak, and neither does Mickey. They’ve always had this connection—to be able to converse without the use of worlds. He can stay here, staring at Mickey’s brilliant blue eyes, and feel like he’ll get lost in them forever. This moment should last forever.

Mickey, ever the pushy bottom that he is, rucks up his dress with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Wanna get this off for me, ayy? Kinda making all sorts of mess on my balls, man.”

What Ian sees completely blows his mind. He knew Mickey got dressed in the back seat of that old green car. He just—he never expected Mickey _not_ to be wearing underwear with that black pantyhose. Seeing it now makes it a hundred times hotter. Mickey’s legs are short but toned. The baggy jeans he always wears does no justice to the shape of his legs.

“Fuck, Mickey,” he whispers in reverence. “You look so fucking hot.”

“Yeah?” Mickey smirks, widening his stance more. “You gonna do something about that?” He lifts his foot from the bed and casually drapes it over Ian’s shoulder, hooking it then pulling. “Cause junior down there misses ya too.”

Ian gets to work, shucking off his shirt then getting down on Mickey. Tonight, he plans to worship this beautiful man beneath him with everything he’s got—as if this is his last chance.

“Take a fuckin’ picture!” Mickey taunts in a way that Ian knows he’s hiding his embarrassment.

“No,” Ian says, lips kissing wetly along the black nylon along Mickey’s shin. “No pictures. I want this exclusively for my eyes only, Mickey.” Jealousy burns hotly in his veins. “Hate that other people saw you like this when you’re _mine_.”

Mickey goes along willingly, hands running smoothly over the back of Ian’s neck. He’s flushed down to his neck. The heat of their bodies makes it near-impossible to breath properly.

Ian thinks that he can never get enough of this Mickey—physically harder since they were last together but open in so many ways. This Mickey who speaks openly about missing him, about wanting him, about being with him to love somewhere free. It’s a Mickey that Ian’s always dreamed about if only he isn’t on the run.

“Hey, no,  come back.” Mickey coaxes with his hands tugging Ian’s hair. His eyes shine bright with all the love that one small man who grew up in the shittiest condition could. “There.  You with me, Ian? Thought you was gonna fuck me, huh?  Meds not working right? Ya know it’s okay, right?”

“Don’t fucking talk about the meds,” Ian growls, biting Mickey’s thigh. The punched-out moan that cimes after goes straight to his cock. “I’m gonna give it to you so good that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” Mickey grins. “That a promise, Firecrotch?” He doesn’t wait for a reply but tugs their heads together, lips lining-up like second nature.

Ian touches every part of Mickey that he can—face, chest, waist, hips.  He moves reaches for the silken-wrapped legs and thumbs over the bullet wound from Kash on Mickey’s right thigh. Then,  he trails back to lift Mickey’s hips off the bed and onto his lap.

“Let me make love to you, Mickey.”

Mickey can’t meet his eyes.

Ian urges the brunette to face him.

“Admit it. You love me.”

Mickey grabs him by the hair and crashes their lips together. Ian understands the answer even without words.

“Show me,” Mickey whispers. It’s special in so many ways. Ian’s never seen Mickey more vulnerable than when he’s talking about love. He can’t blame Mickey for the environment they were raised in. Southside doesn’t have the room for love.

Ian continued his earlier cause—kissing up and down Mickey’s legs until the brunette is nothing but a quivering mess. Hands with FUCK U-UP clench tightly in his hair. All he can think about is the desire to drive Mickey wild.

“I-Ian!” Mickey gasps when he licks over the nylon. Short legs wrap around his head, trembling.  “S-stop or I’m gonna blow!”

Ian pays it no heed. He’s rewarded by the view of Mickey’s thick white cum staining the datk fabric. His mouth waters. Before anything else, he’s got his lips around the sensitive head and licking at the salty-bitter flavor.

Mickey jolts off the bed. “ _Goddamn,_ fuck! You gotta fuckin’ fetish now or something?”

Instead of answering, Ian manhandles the other man so that Mickey’s lower half is completely at his mercy.  The brunette squirms but he holds firm, putting Mickey’s legs over his shoulder so that he can reach the ass he’s been gone for since he was thirteen.

“Ian, fuck!” Mickey whimpers at first contact.

The tangy taste of Mickey explodes in Ian’s mouth, making him drool. One of the things that he can never get enough of was that pungent flavor. 

Fingers claw at his arms, pull on his hair—doing anything to reach out for him.

“Touch yourself,” he orders with a voice broken like gravel. “Let me see, Mick.”

Mickey does as he’s told, moaning at the sensitivity of his flesh. He starts to slowly jerk himself off while Ian teases his ass.

The view from above is amazing. Ian feels his cock strain inside his boxers at the sight. Suddenly, he loses what little self-control he has.  He pulls as the fabric until it rips cleanly along Mickey’s crack, granting him access. 

Mickey’s toes curl when Ian’s tongue touches him bare. Eating ass used to be taboo—to gay for Mickey—but now his over-sensitive cocks jumps at the sensation.

Ian can barely contain himself. He wants inside that ass _now_ , but he’s desperate to wring another orgasm out of Mickey before he even starts thinking about himself. He sloppily. There’s too little tongue and too much saliva. It’s not like he’s made a living eating ass. Cock, maybe, but the only ass he’s ever kissed liked this was Mickey’s.

Now, Mickey looks like he’s enjoying every second of it. It fills Ian with joy knowing that its _him_ making Mickey turn from a prison-hardened man to this pile of goo. This is _his_ Mickey.

“Ian, come on.” Mickey reaches out to touch Ian’s face this time, lifting if off. “Don’ make me ask again, you fucker.”

“But you’re not ready. I still have to—” Ian’s cut off by Mickey curling fingers over his hand and tugging him up. They both lose balance. Mickey falls to the bed with a thump and Ian crashes right after him. They are both sticky with sweat. The hot Chicago night does nothing to alleviate the temperature. It’s always been like this for them—a tough, all-consuming love.

“S’okay,” Mickey says, angling his hips so that his ass grinds against Ian’s crotch. His powerful legs trap Ian against him, silken-covered feet pushing at Ian’s threadbare blue boxers. “Come on, come on. Stop fuckin’ stalln’. I can take it. Let go, Ian, it’s gonna be a’right.”

Ian nods, lines himself up. “I fucking _missed you_.”

In response, Ian holds him by the head. “I know.”

The push into that tight ring of muscles brings forth a whole lot of memories. Back then, they fucked in Mickey’s rickety old bed front-to-back. Look how far they’ve come. Mickey’s wearing the dress as a disguise, all bunched up to his arm pits, beautiful as the day Ian realized he was in-love with the Milkovich thug, open and wanting _him_.

They both let their moans echoes the quiet room.

Ian can’t quite get enough of Mickey. He touches. He holds. Anywhere. Everywhere. He buries his nose in Mickey’s neck and inhales the scent he learned to love. Mickey’s never going to smell like faggy-ass soap, deodorant, or shampoo. Mickey smells like raw _man_ —pungent and thick. Ian still loves the way Mickey smells, especially after a long rigorous bout of vigorous sex.

His bed squeaks with the force of his thrusts, bearing the weight of two grown men fucking like they were teenagers all over again.

Somewhere along the way. They flip positions. Ian finds himself with his back against the headboard. Mickey’s straddling him. Those sinful pink lips parted as he rides to his heart’s content. The dress falls open, exposing the milky white flesh that has barely seen sun in years. Ian’s mouth waters with the _need_ to lick and suck and bite. He wants his marks to mar Mickey’s skin for days at a time.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mickey bites his lips and grunts while he bounces. Ian pinches one of his nipples. “Oh fuck!”

Ian’s eyes grow large like saucers. They’ve never really had time to explore. Mickey arches his back, leaning into the touch. Ian moves forward, hands on Mickey’s back, pulling the other man to him. He catches a nipple mid-bounce, making Mickey’s pace falter. It tastes like salty perspiration but its soft on his tongue. He laves at it like he would a cockhead.

Mickey falls forward, bringing Ian down. He cries out at the change of angle. His hands fall to the pillow at Ian’s head.

Ian takes it as permission, capturing the rosy bud again. Mickey restarts a slow grinding pace by adulating his hips in tiny circles. Ian slides his hands down the sweaty back to the bunched-up fabric on Mickey’s hip. Lately, he’s learned a lot about sexuality. He’s a dude who likes dude. Now, he’s a dude who likes dudes in a dress. No, scratch that—he’s just a dude who likes seeing Mickey in a dress.

Underneath the fabric, he sees a faded poorly-drawn tattoo of his name.

“Fuck!” Mickey exclaims as Ian jerks up uncontrollably.

Ian pinches the other nipple.

Mickey’s elbows give out. He falls face-first onto the pillow.

Ian uses it as an opportunity to circle Mickey with his arms and thrust-up. The noises coming out from Mickey barely sound human—needy and desperate. It’s a jumble of words that can be “I love you” or his name.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Mickey’s nails digs into his shoulders. “I gotta—I gotta—! Ian!”

Ian tightens his holds on Mickey’s ass. He pulls down as hard as he thrusts-up, burying himself deeply in Mickey’s ass. It makes the brunette jerk in his embrace. The ass around his cock pulses rhythmically. Something sticky and hot seeps into the fabric trapped between them.

Mickey came, untouched.

Just the thought of that is enough to bring Ian to his own completion. He finishes inside Mickey, painting the dark-haired man’s insides with his spend. It quickly warms his still-solid cock. It’s not enough. He wants to move some more but he knows that Mickey’s oversensitive by now.

“Do it,” Mickey’s throaty voice tells him. “Still so fuckin’ big. Wreck me.”

Ian does as he is told. He flips them over again. Mickey lay down like a pliant doll on the bed—sweaty and flushed. Ian pulls his legs wide, using it as an anchor as he pounds into the tight sloppy ass. The lube and his cum make the passage slippery. He pulls out all the way before pushing back inside. Mickey’s biting the _k_ on his right hand.

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” he chants the name like a prayer.

Then, Mickey opens his eyes. Blue orbs are wet with tears. “я тебе люблю,” he says.

Ian freezes half-way in. He stares at Mickey, wide-eyed. It goes without saying that he picked up a couple of phrases while living his momentary domestic. He may or may not have googled the things that Mickey used to mumbled in his sleep. He’s never heard Mickey say it out loud. Mickey usually speaks in English. It renews his vigor.

Mickey claws at the sheets as he moans.

Ian leans in for a kiss as he comes. It ends up nothing more than them panting into each other’s open mouths. Yet, it might be one of the hottest kisses he’s ever had in his entire life. He comes and comes and comes. It feels like it won’t ever stop—not until Mickey’s flat stomach bulges from the volume of it.

When he pulls out, a white sticky bridge follows his cock.

Mickey winces from underneath him.

God, Ian thinks, he looks absolutely perfect—debauched in a black dress, ripped stockings, with his hair sticking to his forehead. He wants to take a picture of this moment and save it forever.

“Fuck!” Mickey exhales, “Get me outta this clothes, ye? I can’t move!”

Ian laughs. It’s the first time since they parted that he could laugh—open, and joyful, and free. He laughs like a giddy little Southside kid as he strips Mickey of the varied layers of cloths. The dress goes first, followed by the stockings, until he can see clearly just how much has changed with Mickey’s body over the years.

He traces every new unknown scar and wishes for the story behind them. He kisses the scars that he knew he caused. He covers the tattoo of his name with the palm of his hand. Mickey’s body is like a story book of their life. It’s not perfect but its theirs.

Ian falls asleep that night with his nose buried in Mickey’s neck.

Finally, it smells like home again.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that I haven't been on lately! I'm in a depressive slump and struggling to write all my xmas fics. I was writing one but then Episode11 happened and then my heart got crushed and I HAD to write this. :(( Our poor babies. Please tell me that they are finally bring them back for season 8, or I'm quitting this fandom forever.
> 
> PS. Your comments and your kudos are LOVE. :)


End file.
